That night, alone in bed, George flicked on a flashlight and pored over those torn pages. This became his nightly routine. Night after night, as the months dragged on, he studied every image, every detail. He concocted fantastical scenarios in his head, all of which he had no doubt would be represented in the game. 

He imagined soaring through vast, colorful worlds on Yoshi’s back, defeating enemies with ease and uncovering hidden paths no one else could find. He pictured Mario scaling towering mountains, diving into deep oceans, and discovering treasures in places even the game’s creators hadn’t thought of. Super Mario World wasn’t just a game anymore; it was a promise. A promise of escape, of power, of a world where George could be the hero, where everything made sense.

And now it was out. It was finally within his grasp. This was supposed to be the culmination of all his hopes and dreams, the start of a grand adventure. And yet…George abruptly turned away from the store window. He couldn’t bear it. For the game had become no more than a distant mirage, less real than the small collection of images he’d obsessed over.

The two arrived at their home, a small studio apartment nestled within a century-old townhouse. They had moved into the studio not long after George’s father left. When he asked his mother why they were moving into such a cramped space, she told him that their old home was “far too much house for just two people.” Though George had his doubts, in a rare moment of self-restraint, he said nothing.

They quickly settled into their familiar evening routine. George’s mother lit a few candles and turned the radio to an R&B station, letting the low hum of music fill their small space while she made dinner. George sat at his desk, pretending to do homework, but his mind was preoccupied with matters of far greater significance. He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about Super Mario World and the rapidly shrinking possibility it would ever be his.

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